


Sherlock's Grace

by Lady_Mirepoix, WolfOfBakerStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Female John Watson, Femlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2013-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Mirepoix/pseuds/Lady_Mirepoix, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfOfBakerStreet/pseuds/WolfOfBakerStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeanette ((John Watson)) comes home from the shopping and sees something she never expected</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cinnamon_and_cardigans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_and_cardigans/gifts).



Only once have I seen a sight that has brought me to tears. It was spring and as usual Sherlock had sent me to pick up some shopping. A few paper bags filled my arms as I struggled up the stairs, something my flat mate never seemed to do. She had the grace of the wind through the branches of a willow tree. Every step she took was wilder than anyone I've ever met, yet as elegant as a feline on a plush carpet.   
Sherlock was easiest to compare to a raging fire. Long dark chocolate brown curls would bounce against her slender back and eyes the color of storm clouds and those soft green seas could read you like a simple child’s book. Skin the color of moonlight stretched across a lanky and stunningly slender frame. That was with exception to her chest, perfectly proportioned C cups that never messed with her incredible agility and balance.   
I had always seen the grace and culture in the youngest Holmes child. Though most only knew the culture of Mycroft, Sherlock’s elder brother with whom she would constantly go to blows over the most trivial things. Such as the tea my companion preferred, to the color of her dress socks, to the tattered remains of her pajamas from which she hardly ever changed out of unless an emergency called her from the flat.   
What most people didn’t get to see was the side of her I did, the side so personal that not many have the opportunity see in another person. Sherlock loved fine wine, expensive cigarettes, elegant clothes, and most of all Sherlock loved the arts of classical music. The elegance and grace that she possessed, poured out on the stage in form of operas, orchestral performances, and ballet. Often times when I came back from a trip, I would hear the high quality sound of my laptop playing a very specific classical music playlist that she had created to never allow boredom to creep over her.   
This afternoon it was a Bach Concerto and knowing far better than to disturb a sleeping lion, I struggled with my key ring attempting to slip silently into flat. Silently, once inside I went almost to the kitchen before I saw her. With one of the bags on the counter, the other in my hand as I stood transfixed on the sight before me. Wrapped a thread bare blanket, a lithe frame painted in tight leggings the color of jet and a grey tank top that revealed slightly damp pale skin, was my flat mate Sherlock Holmes. Long brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail allowing me to see the pale skin of her neck. Stormy eyes were closed as I took in more of the scene, she was not sitting, nor was she standing. Sherlock Holmes was dancing, not a waltz or a quickstep, but ballet. Hips moved with feet as the grace flowed through her, from the fly away hairs cast among the dew of her forehead that stood stark against her pale skin to the red manicured toes moving between the pale carpet of the living room to the cherry hardwood of the hall, almost hovering.   
Slowly the force took over each limb as the dance played out like a rehearsed scene before me. Her bare feet so small, like a fairy’s, moved across the carpet of the living room as if her mind was controlled by some unknown puppeteer pulling strings to create the fantasy I saw before my own eyes. Movement, like liquid flowed from her core, creating the angelic vision. Sherlock seemed to be at peace as she allowed me to bare witness to her when she was most vulnerable.   
As the music began to slow, I realized that she knew I was there and had wanted me to see this. Sherlock Holmes, the great Sherlock Holmes, was flirting with me. Slowly the music ended, the soft noise of the spring breeze through the window was the only sound other than the panting breath of Sherlock could be heard in the flat. Slowly my hands came together of their own accord in a rhythmic clapping.   
“Jeanette, you’re crying.” She said to me as I wiped my eyes. Seeing her like that in such a private moment . . . when her true bloodline shines through . . . it still haunts my dreams. Every night when I look over beside me in her bed, I can see the grace reflected across her skin as she curls up to my side. Her slender body relaxed in sleep, when she does, or focused on my breathing as I type. Though I may have once doubted her cultured upbringing and grace, I will seriously again never doubt Sherlock Holmes . . . or her many talent. My favorite of which is her ballet.   
~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever completed short story and I hope that I did ok.


End file.
